


Lost

by strawberry_pie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Illusions, Insanity, Mark of Cain, alternate universe (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3551279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_pie/pseuds/strawberry_pie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wakes up to find himself in what he had thought to be familiar surroundings, only to see that everything is different.  Has he gone over the edge and into insanity, or is there an explanation for it all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The past few months had been incredibly difficult for Dean; the Mark was making his life a living hell by controlling him, and there were more and more periods of time that he was missing entirely.  
His anger and need to kill had been rising steadily, and he’d gone so far as to abandon Sam and Castiel to keep them safe. He couldn’t tell just how much longer he’d even be able to maintain the smallest semblance of his true self, how much longer it would be until the Mark turned him into even more of a monster.  
And, so, he’d left before he ended up hurting his family, or worse.

  
In the middle of that night that seemed so long ago, Dean had grabbed the small bag of his things that he’d packed weeks before, and had left for nowhere in particular. He didn’t care where he went, just so long as it was away from the ones he cared so much about.  
He had found an old cabin deep in some woods in the middle of nowhere, and he had holed up there.  
It was lonely, but he had no other choice; not until he figured out a way, if there even was one, to get rid of the Mark.  
Everything that had been tried so far had failed, and Cain’s words hadn’t exactly been encouraging; still, despite the odds against him, there was a part of Dean that refused to give up.

*** *** ***

The previous night had been a tough one, and Dean had spent much of it awake.  
Around 2:00 am, he just couldn’t stay still any longer, rage coursing throughout his entire body.  
He took it out on a nearby tree, stripping large areas of the thick trunk of bark, intensely stabbing away at it with a knife until there were very deep wounds in the wood, damaging the tree greatly.  
Dean had been tempted to turn the knife on himself, but knew that even if he did want to kill himself, that it wouldn’t work.  
After all, he’d already tried and failed. The Mark was keeping him alive, whether or not he wanted it that way.  
Hours later, Dean had headed back to bed, sweaty and greatly frustrated.

He had slept through to the morning after finally falling to sleep on his spot on the floor, only to hear his younger brother’s voice calling him.  
Dean pressed his lips together, thinking that this couldn’t be a good sign, imagining voices like this.  
It wasn’t as though Sam would’ve been able to track him; he’d made damn sure that there was no trail for Sam to follow.  
Dean heard the voice again, heard his brother call his name.  
Is this what things were going to be like now? Was he going insane, too, on top of everything else?  
Well, if Sam was there and Dean wasn’t able to hurt him, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. At least he’d have company.  
Dean ignored the voice, wanting it to go away, both hating it and finding some comfort in the familiar sound.  
But, just as he was drifting back off to sleep, Dean suddenly felt the thin, pilled up sheet and the jacket he’d been using to keep warm at night taken off of him.  
His eyes opened in shock, looking up to see not only his brother, but different surroundings altogether.

*** *** ***

Dean knew that what he was seeing couldn’t possibly be real, that it was all an illusion in his head; it had to be, there was no chance that this was reality.  
He seemed to be back at the bunker, in his bedroom lying on his bed beneath his warm comforter.  
Sam was looking down at him in concern, his brow furrowed.  
“You okay, Dean?” He asked, a hint of worry in his tone.  
Dean gave a short laugh.  
As real as this all seemed, he couldn’t let himself believe it; if he did, then he might never come out of it.  
He might prefer to stay here in his mind, instead of trying to find a way to remove the Mark, and then he’d never see the real Sam again.  
Sam leaned over, checking his brother’s forehead, the hand feeling incredibly real.  The bed, the blankets...  It all felt so real to him.  
“You feel a little warm… Maybe you should stay in bed, today.” He said, looking uncomfortable. “Are you feeling all right?”  
Dean shook his head and looked up.  
“I’ve lost it already, huh?” Dean asked, though it didn’t seem to really be a question at all, and more of a statement. “Didn’t see that one coming.”  
Sam’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about, Dean?” He asked, completely caught off guard by such talk.  
Dean swallowed, before closing his eyes, rubbing them with his fists and trying to get back to his reality.  
The one where he was shivering beneath the makeshift blankets on the floor. The one where he was hungry, lonely, and always tired. The one where he’d practically given up on everything.  
It didn’t work.  
“Do you want me to get a doctor?” Sam asked, much more concerned than before.  
He pulled out his phone, ready to dial the number.  
Dean opened his eyes.  
The look on his brother’s face pained him.  
Even if Sam wasn’t real, Dean hated to see him like that.  
He sighed, not understanding why all of this had to happen to him, but trying to make the best of it.  
“No, Sammy, I’m fine.” He lied, wondering why he was bothering to. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”  
Sam nodded slowly.  
“Right.” He said, not exactly convinced, but going with it. “Well, you know where I am if you need me.”  
Dean got up from his bed. “Yeah, sure.” He said, trying to make his tone less miserable, stomach growling with hunger.  
He wondered who else would be there.  
He stepped out into the hall, and headed to the kitchen in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms that he’d often worn back at the bunker.

The kitchen was empty, and he opened the cupboard to pour himself a bowl of cereal with colourful marshmallows in it, when he heard footsteps.  
He turned around, not sure who or what to expect.  
A young woman in her twenties wearing a uniform came into the kitchen, greeting him familiarly.  
“Good morning, Mr. W!” She enthused with a smile, her long brown ponytail wagging as she cocked her head.  
Dean set down the box of cereal he’d pulled from the cupboard, eyebrows raised as he looked at her.  
“Uh, hi.” He returned a little slowly, the sight of her perking him up a bit.  
She _was_ pretty cute, after all.  
“Sorry, I’m late, but my alarm clock is busted.” She explained, putting on an apron from the cupboard and heading behind the countertop island in the middle of the kitchen. “Now, how about I make you something nice to eat?”  
The woman opened the refrigerator, pulling out eggs, bacon and orange juice.  
“Hmmm… There aren’t any cheese biscuits left, but I could make some for you.” She said thoughtfully, putting the food on the counter. “I know they’re your favourite.”  
Dean cleared his throat. “No, that’s fine, you don’t have to go to the trouble.” He told her, sneaking a glance at her nicely rounded chest.  
The woman laughed gently, giving him a kind look.  
“That’s my job, silly.” She told him as a reminder, a hand on her hip. “Isn’t that why you hired me, to cook?”  
Dean didn’t say anything, his stomach grumbling.  
“Now, if you really want cereal instead, that’s fine, but just remember why I’m here, huh?” She told him, waiting for his response.  
“I’ll, uh, I’ll stick with cereal.” He managed, beginning to feel drained again.  
The woman nodded. “All righty, no problem at all.” She said agreeably. “Did you want whole or skim milk?”  
Dean felt weird about not just getting the milk himself. “Whole, please.” He answered, and the bowl of cereal was made for him, just the way he would’ve made it himself.  
“Thanks.” He said with a raised eyebrow, receiving a smile in response, before he left to go back to his room.

*** *** ***

Hours later, Dean had tried numerous times to get back to reality, but had failed.  
At first, he’d almost been happy to be back at the bunker, but now he would been more comfortable back in the cold, damp cabin.  
Things were just so different. The only place he’d felt at home had been changed into something drastically different than what it had been.  
He’d even attempted to try and make what he was seeing now into something more familiar. That hadn’t worked, either.  
Not only was there a kitchen attendant, but an entire hired staff.  
Why? Because the bunker had been turned into some sort of resort.  
Anyone and everyone could see it with ease, and now there was even a therapeutic horse ranch outside of it.  
Other than Sam, there had been only one other familiar face so far, and that had been Castiel.  
Dean had been very much surprised to find that his very good friend was a bellhop, who didn’t seem to know him that well.  
That had been tough.  
Upon seeing that face that he knew so well, Dean had found himself with a sudden thought; perhaps Cas had somehow done this.  
Maybe, somehow, Castiel had been responsible for all this and it would all work out in the end. Maybe, this was the only way for things to go back to normal.  
But, of course, Dean realised just how ridiculous that would be, and put it out of his mind.

As he lay on his bed, trying to make some sense of it all, he became more discouraged.  
He put his hands over his eyes, rubbing them. As he removed his hands, he noticed something.  
The Mark. It was gone. Not even a hint of it remained.  
Dean blinked, putting a hand over the area on his inner arm.  
Sure, maybe this all was some sort of whacko dream, or maybe he’d finally gone nuts, but seeing his arm free of that Mark… It felt good.  
Since there was nothing else to do, except just ride all this out, Dean decided to leave his bedroom to explore things a bit.

“Hey, you feeling any better?” Sam asked, noticing him in the hall.  
“Yeah, I’m great.” Dean fibbed convincingly, and Sam looked a little more at ease.  
“Good.” He returned, brushing his hair back on one side. “Look, I just have some paperwork to finish up, but afterwards, let’s sit down for a while and talk.”  
This sounded pretty good to Dean, though it was odd to hear Sam talk about paperwork like that.  
“Sure.” He responded, continuing down the hall.  
Sam watched him in wait, the worried look returning.  
Dean stopped, looking back to see his brother watching him. “Wrong way.” He said, pointing.  
“Wrong way.” Sam agreed, and Dean turned to go the other way, walking a little more quickly.


	2. Chapter 2

It was around forty minutes later, when Sam found Dean in what had originally been the den, sitting on a white sofa and looking less than happy.  
Now, however, it was a sort of reception area for the guests. Dean remembered where everything had been, how it _should_ have been. It was all very disconcerting.  
"Come with me." Sam told him, guiding him upstairs into a private area, into what was their current den.  
He had Dean sit down in an oversized brown leather chair, before sitting in an identical chair across from him.  
"What is it that you're not telling me?" Sam asked in his customarily patient tone, hands clasped between his knees which were spread apart.  
"What do you mean?" Dean asked, not wanting to get into it.  
Sam sighed. "Look, you're not... _You_." He said, sounding unsure. "I mean, you are, but you definitely aren't. Something's up. Tell me what it is, maybe I can help."  
Dean shook his head.  
"You've always wanted to help me out Sammy, but the truth is, most of the time, you're just not the one to do the helping. Know what I mean?" He replied a touch dryly.

He would’ve liked to be able to really talk to his brother, but the truth was that even if he did feel comfortable really talking about whatever was going on inside of him, it wasn’t right to be dumping that all over his little brother.  
It’s supposed to be the other way round, and Dean understood that. He wasn’t going to be the kind of guy who passes his burdens onto other people, especially not Sam.  
“Please?” Sam asked a little more softly, the concern palpable. “Since I walked into your room this morning, you’ve been off. Like, you don’t know me, or anything around you.”  
Sam paused for a moment, trying to think of the right words to use.  
“I’ve never seen you suddenly forget your way around here, or act as though you’ve never even seen the staff members. And, the way you acted as though you and the new hire are old pals, despite the fact that you’ve only met the guy twice before? I don’t know…” He went on, sounding very confused.  
Dean raised his arms in the air, before letting them fall down to his sides.  
“Maybe I don’t know this place, or these people.” He said, not caring what Sam might think at this point.  
He was getting fed up with all of this, and enough was enough. There wasn’t any point in acting as though any of this really mattered, when it didn’t.  
This wasn’t real, so he could do whatever he wanted to, because in the end, none of it would have any significance in reality. If he ever got back, which he intended to.  
“ _Maybe_ , I do know that new hire, and maybe we are old pals.” Dean finished simply, and Sam blinked.  
“What are you on about?” He asked, trying to understand all of this.  
Dean licked his bottom lip, getting up from his chair and going to pour himself a helping of whiskey from the oak cabinet in the corner of the large room.  
He downed the shot, before dosing himself with a second, then putting the bottle back on the cabinet shelf and setting the glass beside it.  
“Sammy, I don’t know what’s going on or how it happened. Maybe I’m losing my mind, I don’t know any more. All I do know, is this ain’t real.” He spoke up, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spreading throughout his system convincingly. “It can’t be; I went to sleep in a crappy cabin in the woods, alone, and woke up here. And, on top of that, everything’s different; the bunker’s not some damn tourist spot. It’s home; it’s where we come back to after the hunting trips. Not this.”  
Sam swallowed, thinking that maybe now would be a good time to call that doctor.  
“Dean, I don’t know what you’re going through right now, but whatever it is, I’m going to help you through it.” He promised, getting out his phone and dialling.  
Dean scoffed, knowing exactly what Sam was doing.  
“Go ahead, call the doctor. As if it would do any good.” Dean muttered, sitting back down.

*** *** ***

Before long, an older man with a greying beard and very little hair on the top of his head had arrived, and proceeded to talk very gently to Dean, who wasn’t impressed by what felt like patronisation to him.  
“And, how long have you believed that this is not your home?” Doctor Mendelshon asked in a soft tone, sitting across from Dean as Sam had done, paying very close attention to him.  
“Since I got here.” Dean answered honestly, deciding to go along with the flow. “Because, it isn't my home. Not really.”  
“I see.” The doctor replied, writing down some notes in his white pad of paper. “And, why do you think that is?”  
Dean went over the list of reasons why, and the doctor scribbled some more.  
“All right.” He said soothingly, which irritated Dean further.  
“Okay, fine, if you’re going to do this, can you at least stop with the sweet and gentle crap?” Dean asked, having had enough.  
“I’m sorry?” Came the old man’s response, feigning ignorance.  
Dean refrained from rolling his eyes.  
“Or not.” He said, knowing that the doctor would simply continue on the same way.  
“I am only trying to help you, Dean.” He said truthfully, wanting only to do just that.  
He seemed to think that he knew Dean very well, for many years, in fact, and had come in on his time off only because of this.  
“Nobody can help me.” Dean pointed out. “Not unless you can figure out how to get me back to where I came from, and I very much doubt that you’re capable of that.”  
He’d been taken to different times, and once or twice, to alternate universes so to speak, but none of that had been anything quite like this. This was far too different.  
Mendelshon took his glasses off, and got up to talk very quietly to Sam, who had been watching from the far corner of the room.  
He didn’t come back, leaving Sam with a slip of paper from the notepad.

“Doctor Mendelshon wants me to keep an eye on you, but he’s sure with a bit of help, you’ll be back to normal soon.” Sam explained, having taken some time to digest what he’d been told. “We’ll be seeing some new doctors in the next couple of days.”  
Dean rolled his eyes.  
“Don’t talk to me like I’m some kid, Sammy. I know he thinks something’s wrong upstairs, and that you do, too.” He shot back a little edgily, touching his left temple with an index finger.  
Maybe he should have kept it all to himself, but he had needed to let it out for once.  
“It’s just… We’ve never gone hunting hunting, much less what you’ve described. Mom and Dad are fine, they’re retired and living in Denmark, and we’ve always lived here.” Sam told Dean, looking very awkward. “It’s always been like this; we grew up here on the resort, and took it over after Mom and Dad retired.”  
“And, what about your dreams of becoming a lawyer? Leaving that behind?  Saving people, hunting things, the family business?” Dean retorted touchily, knowing there was no point, but it felt kind of good anyway. “How about the Mark of Cain, working with Crowley, killing Satan and ending Abaddon? All that stuff happened, Sammy. You can’t help not knowing that, because of whatever crap’s going on, because you’re not my real brother, but it happened.”  
Dean stalked over to the cabinet again, this time just taking the bottle and drinking straight from it, despite Sam’s requests for him not to have any more.  
“And, I’m going to find a way back. I don’t know how, but I’m going to.” He added, more to himself than anything, before leaving the room.

*** *** ***  
Dean finished roughly a quarter of the bottle, before deciding to go down into the basement.  
Of course, nothing was the same there, either.  
There were only crates, some supplies, and a few other things covered in dust.  
He heard a noise behind him, and he turned to see what it was.  
“Hello?” He called out, wishing that he’d had a flashlight and his blade with him.  
A shorter man than Dean walked out, his thin frame coming towards him a few steps from out of the shadows.  
“Hello.” The man echoed, looking very awkward.  
It was the bellhop.

“You followed me. Why?” Dean asked, wondering if this was going to be some sort of confession from Castiel, explaining things.  
“I don’t know.” He answered, giving a little shrug as he stood there.  It was strange to hear Castiel's voice like that; it was less deep and more expressive.  
Dean let out a breath, feeling disappointed that the slight hope that he'd had was now completely dashed.  
“You know my name. My _first_ name, which nobody outside my family ever uses.” The man started inquisitively. “Everyone else knows me as Misha, which is my middle name. And, since I only put my first initial on my resume, I don’t understand how you’d know.”  
Dean leaned against a wall.  
“And?” He prompted, not sure what else to say.  
Misha shifted on the spot.  
“I guess I’d just like to know how you learned my name, that’s all.” He stated, thinking it a rather reasonable request.  
“Do you believe in luck?” Dean asked hopefully, not wanting to get into things right now.  
Misha shook his head. “Not really.” He admitted. “And, I don’t mean to push or anything, I don’t want to lose my job…”  
“You’re not gonna lose your job. I get it, you’re uncomfortable that I somehow know your name.” Dean replied, shoving a hand in his front pocket. “But, honestly, you’d understand the truth even less.”  
Misha frowned, not sure what to make of this. “Okay?” He said, even more confused.  
With that, Dean headed upstairs, bottle in hand, and drank a bit more before sleeping it off until the next day.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, Dean awoke feeling uncomfortably cold.  
He opened his eyes, half-expecting to find that it had all been just a bizarre dream.  
It hadn’t been.

  
The only reason that he was cold, was only because his blanket had ended up on the floor beside the bed, kicked off in the middle of the night during a particularly horrendous nightmare.  
Dean sighed as his mind processed this, full consciousness easing its way in.  
He didn’t want this; of course, he didn’t want to be stuck with the Mark and alone either, but at least that felt better in a way.  
He’d grown used to it, and had accepted his fate as much as he could; which is to say, that he had accepted that his life had become a search for a way to remove the Mark before it killed what was left of him.  
This… This was just too much on top of everything.

  
He took a few moments, before heading to his personal bathroom and taking a hot, leisurely shower.  
He spent what seemed like hours beneath the steaming droplets of water, just letting his mind go as numb as it possibly would.  
After his fingers and toes got all pruny, he stepped out of the shower, wrapping a large and fluffy cyan towel around his waist, and sat on his bed.  
By now, the entire staff had likely been alerted that he was ‘unwell’.  
Not that he cared what they thought, why should he?  
But, he did care that they would end up treating him like some frickin’ leper. He wasn’t especially fond of extra attention from people, and that’s exactly what he expected to have happen.  
Maybe, he would just stay here. Stay in bed and just wait for whatever was going to happen.  
Yeah, that sounded pretty damn good.  
Dean stood up, letting the towel simply collapse into a damp heap on the berber carpeting, and crawled back into bed, pulling the covers up over his head and forgetting about everything as much as he could.

At this point, he just felt like giving up entirely and felt so very close to doing just that.  
He just wanted it all to be over, not to keep fighting or suffering. He was tired of being miserable without any chance of a better future.  
He’d spent his whole life striving just for survival; maybe it was time to stop striving, whatever that might mean for him.  
Sam would be fine without him he knew that. And, the same went for Castiel. Hell, they might even be better off without him.  
But, Dean knew that he wouldn’t just give up like that. He knew that despite how bad he might feel, that he would continue on as best he could, as he always had and always would.

 

*** *** ***

In the afternoon, Dean heard a knock at the bedroom door, which he chose to ignore entirely.  
The door swung open a few moments later, and he heard a feminine voice use his name.  
Dean’s eyes sprang open.  
He knew that voice. Knew it well and would never forget it, even if he lived to be centuries old.  
“Mom?” He asked tentatively, his voice catching in his throat a little with the word, sitting up in bed.  
And, sure enough, there she was.  
She was older than Dean had ever seen her, but she looked well.  
Worried, but healthy and well.  
“Sweetheart.” She said in the way that only a mother can, going over and sitting down next to him, wrapping him up in a hug.

  
Not too long afterwards, Dean’s father walked in.  
Dean stiffened a bit at his presence.  
He really didn’t know how to feel about his father, never had.  
Dean respected him to a certain point, hated him for some of the things he’d done or not done, and loved him for others.  
He was an asshole, absolutely, but beyond that, John was Dean’s father.  
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She remarked, putting a hand to his forehead. “John, come over here, does he feel warm to you?”  
John stayed in the doorway, not moving an inch.  
“Get over here.” Mary told her husband firmly. “I don’t care what happened at Christmas, you two are going to act like the loving family we are, and that’s that.”  
John looked unimpressed, but meandered over, placing a large hand on Dean’s forehead.  
“He’s fine, Mary.” He said with the barest hint of irritation, removing his hand.  
Mary shook her head. “No, he’s definitely fevered.” She instantly disagreed, not believing her husband’s words.  
John rolled his eyes, making sure Mary wouldn’t see.  
“We took the first flight over, after Sam told us what happened… Are you still… Feeling unwell?” She asked in a cautious voice, her gentle eyes looking deeply into Dean’s green ones.  
He wanted to say something, but his brain wasn’t working properly.  
Seeing his mother like this was overwhelming. And the fact that she and his dad were together somehow made it even more so.  
He cleared his throat.  
“I’m fine, doing much better.” He fibbed, not wanting to upset her.  
It wasn’t as though he would ever get to see her again except like this. He didn’t want her to be anything other than happy, even if was only an illusion.  
“Sweetie, you know that I can tell when you’re lying to me.” She reminded him, her words soft and caring.  
Dean’s throat felt thick. Why was this so difficult?  
“You just rest for a bit, we’ll stay until you’re doing better.” She promised him, leaning over and kissing his cheek, before encouraging him to lie back down. “I’ll check on you later.”  
Dean couldn’t say anything, just watched as his parents left the bedroom holding hands.  
This changed things somehow, and Dean began thinking over what he ought to do.  
If he was going to be stuck here, and if his entire family was alive and well, then maybe he ought to try and make the absolute best of it even if everything was different.  
But, of course, that might make it harder to get back…  
Dean lay there, wracking his mind over what ought to be done, not coming to an easy decision.  
Staring at the ceiling, laying in bed, Dean felt much more conflicted than he would have expected.  
He hated being so out of control, and with everything becoming more complicated, Dean was even more disconcerted by the situation.


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the day seemed to go rather quickly, the time just flying right by.  
Dean had simply stayed in his bed, not coming out even for meals; he was simply too worn out.  
This seemed to be a losing fight, and Dean didn’t know what to do; this wasn’t something that he could use his weapons and knowhow against.  
This was something that Dean really didn’t know much about, and had no idea how to get out of.  
He was stuck, and it was exhausting.  
Mary, as she had promised, had come back to check on him; the hour or so that she had stayed to talk to him, Dean just felt a sort of awe.  
To have her back, to have her seem as though she really knew him (or, at least, the Dean that she would have been used to), was something that was precious to him.  
Even so, he would give that up in order to come back to himself.

Dean wondered if, while he was here in this alternate reality, if his true self was out there massacring people.  
He couldn’t help but realise that this was a distinct possibility. Cain had gone mad, and had warned that it would happen to him, too.  
And, perhaps this was that madness; the one that Dean had sworn wouldn’t come, that he would fend off and keep at bay until he could find a cure.  
The thought was one that frightened Dean.  
Who knew what the hell was going on? The fact that he simply didn’t know sent a shiver down his spine.  
At least he had gotten away from Sam and Castiel before all this had started. That was one comfort, at least.

Days went by, and Dean had found himself much in the same position as he had arrived.  
The only exception being that he was now pretending to go along with it all, acting as though it had been a sort of brief mental breakdown and he was now back to normal.  
It wasn’t the easiest to fake, but he managed it; Sam, Mary and John had bought it for the most part, and the staff didn’t seem to care that much one way or another with one exception.  
Misha was still wary, and while he didn’t seem uneasy any longer, he did seem quite curious.  
He had maintained a certain amount of distance, though he had kept his eye on Dean as much as was possible.  
Misha was suspicious to a certain extent, and who could blame him?  
Dean knew that the bellhop was watching, trying to see what he could find out.  
It was hard for him to see Castiel and not be able to confide in him; no matter what the circumstances, Dean had almost always been able to talk to Cas when it was important.   
Even with the whole Croatoan thing, when he ended up being sent into the future by Zachariah and Castiel knew that he was definitely not the Dean that he had known at that point in time.  
There was absolutely nobody for Dean to talk to, to trust in, nothing.  
And, while he could deal with that, it wasn’t easy to do; as much as it might have pained him to admit to himself, when it came to the bottom line, he couldn’t really handle being alone.  
It left him too much time to himself, and when that happened, he got to thinking.  
And, whenever he really got around to thinking like that, Dean would often concentrate on what a horrible human being he really was, no matter how he might have tried to justify it.  
He was miserable, through and through.

 

It was nearly a week before his parents left to return to their home in Denmark, leaving Dean with Sam, who was still treating him a bit daintily.  
“I’m, uh, I’m not going to fall apart at the seams, you know that, right?” Dean asked his brother, as they sat outside on a bench that overlooked the pastures.  
A chestnut mare stood watching them, her slick coat shining brilliantly beneath the sunlight.  
“I know.” Sam answered solemnly. “I’m just worried, that’s all.”  
Dean cleared his throat. Even while this Sam was different in a lot of ways from the brother that he knew and loved, when it came to all the emotional sort of crap, they were certainly the same.  
“You’ve been overworking yourself for months, and I let you do it.” Sam replied, sounding a bit disappointed. “It’s kind of my fault.”  
Dean shook his head.  
“Look, if I say that I’ll handle things and something goes wrong, it’s all on me.” Dean told his brother, who scoffed.  
“Yeah, you always say that sort of thing, but I know you’re not as tough as you like to pretend; you can’t do it all, Dean.” Sam said, the breeze toying with his shaggy hair.  
Dean blinked.  
He knew that was true enough, though he’d never considered that Sam would ever think it.  
“I manage well enough.” Dean responded, craving a beer.  
If things had been back to normal, then he and Sam would’ve been exchanging words over cans of beer from the cooler, leaning against Baby’s hood in the middle of a grid road somewhere.  
“The point is that you don’t have to.” Sam retorted honestly, looking out into the pasture. “You’ve always been stubborn, always had to do everything yourself. Even when we were kids, you never let me help you.”  
Dean swallowed, remembering back to his childhood.  
He didn’t like to think about it that much, but there were times when the memories creeped back into his mind.  
“Yeah, well, that’s just the way I am, Sammy.” Dean told him, before there was a long lull in the conversation.

It was a while before Dean broke the silence, a thought suddenly popping into his head.  
“So, what Adam been up to?” He tried, realising that he hadn’t thought about his younger half-brother in a very, very long time.  
It wasn’t as though he was all that memorable, but even so…  
Sam’s spine straightened ever so slightly.  
“Adam?” He asked softly, considering the topic carefully.  
“Adam.” Dean repeated. “You know, blonde, skinny and –“  
Dean was promptly cut off by Sam’s tense voice.  
“You’re seriously asking about Adam?” He asked almost indignantly. “I thought you were ‘fine’, that you were back to normal…”  
Dean closed his eyes, realising that he’d said the wrong thing entirely and curious as to what had happened.  
Sam took a deep breath, letting it out before turning to face his brother.  
“I think that maybe you’re going to need that stay at the hospital like I’d told you about before until you really are feeling better.” He said heavily, his voice flat.  
“Relax, man, it was just a joke.” Dean tried with a shrug, wondering if this was going to dig him in even deeper.  
“A joke?” Sam asked in outright disbelief. “No, you’d never do that, Dean. Come on, we should be heading in.”  
Sam stood up, and Dean just stayed as he was.  
“Let’s go.” He said, his tone that same patient one from before.  
Dean hated hearing it, knowing that the only Sam he had available to him thought he had gone bonkers.  
“All right, fine; but the least you can do is tell me about Adam.” He said, knowing that there was no point in continuing to act as though he was the same Dean that this Sam was used to.  
Sam swallowed, a lump forming in his throat.  
“He passed away, Dean. He’s been gone for a couple of years now.” Sam answered softly, avoiding his eyes completely. “The monumental fountain in the front of the property, that was built in Adam’s memory.”  
Dean opened his mouth to say something, but with the look on Sam’s face, he stayed quiet.  
He followed Sam back inside, and headed straight for his room for some solitude.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean was fed up with everything, and had no idea how to get through it.  
He had considered trying a spell to try and reverse whatever it was that had been done, trying to recall some sort of incantation, anything, to get back.  
But, he just couldn't remember.   
In fact, Dean was finding that he was beginning to forget important things, found that he was having to struggle to retain some of his memories.  
As he paced in his room, growing even more angry with it all, and with himself, Dean suddenly reached out and grabbed a ceramic boat that sat on the bureau and threw it with all of his strength at a wall.  
It had instantly shattered, leaving a noticeable indentation in the plaster.  
It had felt good. Very good.  
Dean picked something else up, his mind just going numb as he let his anger and frustration flow.  
He picked up a framed photo of him as a teenager with the family on some beach, all smiling and happy, and scoffed before opening a window and tossing it frisbee style out onto the flagstone patio where it landed with a satisfying crash.  
Dean caught sight of himself in the mirror, and without even a fleeting thought, he punched the center of it.  
The mirror broke, the sharp glass slicing into his flesh as it made contact with the razor edges; before Dean could do anything else, Mary had opened the door and walked into the room, a horrified look upon her beautiful face.  
He hadn't heard her come in, had been far too wound up and involved in his problem to pick up on it. That wasn't like him.  
Dean had never been one to miss something like that; his hunting skills were far too honed for that to happen.  
He was slipping, he could feel it. And, it terrified him.  
Mary stepped carefully over to him, avoiding the pieces of mirror on the carpeting, reaching out for his bleeding hand.  
Dean didn't even feel the pain, though he could see that he'd done a good job of lacerating his hand and some of his wrist.  
His blood was trickling down his fingers, dripping steadily onto the floor.   
There were a couple of pieces of glass embedded in his skin, not that he cared.  
Mary swallowed hard, her eyes brimming with tears.  
"My poor baby..." She whispered, looking frightened.  
Dean blinked, suddenly feeling guilty.  
"I'm... I'm sorry." He said, the words coming out of his mouth of their own volition.  
Mary bit her lip, sniffing.  
"You just stay right where you are, don't you move." She said, coming to her senses a bit. "I'll get the first aid kit."

 

She returned only a few minutes later, a metal army green box in her hand.  
She set it down on the bed, opening it to reveal a well-stocked first aid supply.  
She took out a pair of tweezers and sanitised them, before turning to Dean and skillfully removing the sharp debris from his wounds.  
Mary stayed silent, doing the only thing she felt that she should, which was taking care of her son.  
After double checking his skin for glass, she set the tweezers aside and began to cleanse Dean's injuries with a towellette, before assessing things a bit more.  
"You're going to need stitches for a couple of these." She remarked, retrieving supplies.  
Mary prepped a syringe of numbing agent, while Dean stared at the floor feeling anything but himself.  
He didn't even notice when she'd poked him with the needle, or began stitching him up.  
He didn't notice when she had bandaged the wounds, and had watched him for a few moments, before kissing him on the cheek and leaving with the kit in hand.  
Dean just sat there, feeling nothing and trapped in his own mind.

 

Dean had stayed in that state for weeks, and hadn't reacted at all when he'd been transported to a local sanitorium only an hour or so after Mary had left him in his room.  
It didn't matter what time of day it was, who tried to speak to him, or what was occurring around him; Dean remained in a catatonic state from which he could not be brought out of.  
During that time, Dean could see and hear it all, but in a very blurred and foggy way.  
The nothingness that he'd begun to feel shortly after destroying the mirror had not wavered in the slightest, and during this time Dean experienced some of his memories; sometimes the same one would play over and over endlessly.  
That specific feeling you would get as a child while falling asleep as you watched television way past your bedtime, that fuzzy and rather peculiar feeling just before your eyes closed for the final time that night, that is what it felt like to Dean.  
He couldn't think, couldn't do anything.  
Dean had laid on the hospital style bed, attached to an IV and machines to monitor him, for a total of 63 days, before he slowly eased out of it one grey morning.  
Over a number of hours, Dean began to take in his immediate surroundings, though he was unable to move.  
By the time he had become alert enough to merit attention from the nurses, evening had already fallen.  
He felt exhausted, and it was very difficult to think clearly.  
Remembering anything was a challenge, and he didn't understand that he wasn't where he belonged, in his reality.  
"Sam, where's Sam?" Dean demanded, thinking that his voice sounded a bit slow. "Where's my brother, what happened?"  
One of the two nurses looked sympathetic, while the other looked bored.  
"Well, he's alert. The doctor'll want us to page him." She said, to the kinder looking woman, who nodded.  
"I'll go ahead and take care of that, you check him out." The seasoned nurse instructed, before turning on her heel and leaving.

"Hello, Dean." She said in a practiced tone meant to be soothing, reading his name off of the chart. "I'm Susan. How are you feeling?"  
Dean blinked.  
"Fine, I'm fine. What about my brother, is he okay?" He asked, as Susan checked his pupils.  
Dean couldn't recall what had happened, and knew that was a bad sign. Maybe they'd gotten into some real bad trouble and Sam was lying in ICU barely clinging on to life.  
He didn't know, and the fact that this nurse was taking it all so lightly wasn't exactly making t easy for him.  
"Well?" He prompted, and Susan's brows knit together.  
"He's fine, he's probably at home waiting to hear about how you're doing." She answered him, scribbling something on his chart, before checking the machine for his pulse rate and writing that down, too. "I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that you're up."  
Dean let out a breath.  
"How long have I been out?" He asked curiously, moving to get out of bed.  
"You have to stay where you are, I'm afraid." Susan told him, pushing him back into a sitting position. "And, you've been out for seven weeks or so."  
Dean didn't think Sam would just leave him at the hospital like this, on his own.  
He knew he'd never do that to Sam, and in the past, Sam had always been around when he'd been in the hospital in the past.  
"Look, I need to make a phone call, can I at least do that?" He requested, needing to find out what had happened.  
"No, patients are not permitted to make phone calls unless it's from the lounge downstairs, and you aren't cleared to leave this wing." She told him, setting his chart in the tray on the footboard of the bed and turning to leave. "The doctor should be in shortly, maybe he'll discharge you and you can make your phone call then."  
She gave him a small apologetic smile, and went to go about her rounds.

Dean shook his head, trying to clear his mind some more.  
He got to his feet, and went over to the window.  
Iron bars skewed the view, and a metal grating made it impossible to open the window for any fresh air.  
It seemed a little out of place for a hospital, and as Dean looked out onto the darkening outside world, his heart felt heavy.  
He turned away from the window, looking for a place his clothing might have been stashed, but there was nothing.  
If he was going to get out of here, he would need something better than the hospital garb he'd found himself in.  
Dean could hear no sign of people outside his room, and saw nobody, and so he made his way down the hall to a metal door.  
It was locked.  
He found another door at the opposite end of the wing, which had also been secured.  
"Damn it." He swore softly to himself, summing up the nurses station further down.  
There was one, perhaps two, staff members there, and they were not exactly the most attentive.  
He felt confident that he could easily slip by unnoticed.  
Dean didn't know why he was in a place like this, a wing that was locked down like a prison, but it was putting him a little ill at ease.  
What had happened that he'd ended up somewhere like this?

He had approached the desk, keeping low to the ground and stealthily making his way through to the nurses door.  
He'd almost been caught when one of the nurses had doubled back to grab his cup of coffee, but had been able to keep his cover by hiding behind a couple of chairs and a coat.  
Within five minutes, he had escaped.  
It was easy as pie from that point, and after a brief search, he'd found some makeshift clothes that fit well enough.  
They weren't exactly what he'd normally choose; a preppy white sweater and beige slackes that were just an inch and a half too long, and a pair of penny loafers that were a bit too big, but they would do the trick.  
With that, he made his way out of the building through a staff exit.  
A tall fence had posed a bit of a challenge, but after a glance around for any onlookers, he had scaled it and was free.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean wandered down a long road, the damp air feeling cool against his skin.  
It didn't take him that long to find an average looking car to break into and hotwire, and after filling up the tank and finding out just where the hell he was, Dean grabbed a plastic wrapped sandwich and a few snacks before consulting a map that the clerk had behind the counter.  
It turned out that he was in Summerlin, Nevada.  
The trip back to the bunker would take roughly seventeen hours, which wouldn't be too bad, except he didn't know who might be after him.  
Not to mention, he didn't have the Impala, which meant that he lacked an aresenal of tools that could come in handy.  
What bothered him the most, however, was Sam's absence.  
The nurse had said that he was back home, which meant that Sam must have been there at some point.  
Where he was now, Dean had no idea.  
Before leaving the gas station, Dean had talked the kid behind the counter into letting him borrow the phone.  
He dialled Sam's primary number; there were a couple of rings, before Dean heard an 'out of service' message.  
That put Dean on edge.  
No way Sam's phone had ever been disconnected, not once.  
Trying to shake the stab of panic that he flooded him, Dean tried another number.

This time, there was an answer, but it definitely wasn't his brother.  
"Hello?" A child's voice said, before someone took the phone from the kid, asking who was calling.  
"I... Uh, I'm trying to get a hold Sam." He said, his voice gruff as he tried to keep it together.  
"No Sam here." An elderly woman's voice replied, sounding weary.  
"How long have you had this number?" Dean questioned, keeping his tone calm and neutral.  
"Forty-three years, and not one of them has there ever been a Sam to answer this phone." She told him, starting to get annoyed. "Now, I've got a grandbaby to put to bed, so if you don't mind..."  
Dean cleared his throat.  
"Right. Sorry." Dean said a little numbly, before handing the reciever back to the kid behind the counter.  
He stood there for a moment, not knowing what to make of it all.  
There had to be an explanation for it.  
He paid for the fuel and the food, before leaving the gas station and getting into the car he'd stolen.  
Behind the wheel, Dean just stared out the window at nothing in particular, just thinking.  
It just didn't make sense...  
He started the car and began to drive.  
Dean didn't care if he did get tired, he intended to drive straight to Lebanon, get there as fast as he could.  
He didn't know if Sam would be there, but he needed to get back home.  
Something there would have to lead him to the answers he was seeking.

 

It had been a long, fairly uneventful drive, and Dean was very tired by the time he'd pulled into the familiar territory, but knowing that he would be home within very shortly gave Dean a bit of comfort.  
He contemplated just going to bed once he got inside, as he was so exhausted.  
He felt as though he'd been awake for days.  
Even so, Dean would instead begin working on getting to the bottom of things.  
Until he knew his brother was safe, Dean wouldn't be able to rest.

Pulling up in front of where the Bunker had always been, Dean got out of the car and stared.  
He stared at where his home should have been in stunned silence.  
He just couldn't understand it, nothing was making any sense at all.  
Dean swallowed, blinking as emotions swam inside him.  
What could he do? There was nothing for him to go on, he didn't even know how he'd ended up in hospital, let alone how on earth the Bunker could have disappeared.  
He tried to think back, tried desperately to find some link between some nugget of memory and what might have happened. Something to explain any of this.  
Dean stood there, focused solely on working over his memory in the struggle to remember.  
Just as he felt certain he was about to unearth something, everything went dark.

 

It was a very sunny October afternoon, and as autumn leaves drifted down in their colourful display, a middle aged man in a wheelchair gazed outside, feeling lost in the beauty of the scene.  
"Here you go, sweetie." A soft feminine voice told him, approaching him from the left to pass him his little paper cup of medications and some water.  
The man took the pills without a word, not even looking away from the window, passing back the empty container but keeping the water cup clutched in his right hand.  
"It's pretty out there today, huh?" She asked, recieving a grunt in response.  
The nurse smiled at him, quite familiar with how to interact with this man.  
She had worked at Emmanuel's Psychiatric Hospital for the past thirty-seven years of her life, and had known him for more than two of those decades.  
He had told her many, many stories which he devoutly believed and enjoyed telling her.  
"Is he always like that?" Asked her trainee, a young lady by the name of Marcie.  
"No, not always." Juliette responded thoughtfully in her Glaswegian lilt. "He tends to switch between periods of near silence and abundant speech."  
Marcie watched the patient, her curiosity peaked.  
"He's been here longer than most patients, longer than most of the nurses, even." Juliette remarked. "Easy enough to get along with, if you just listen to his tales."  
"I've heard that's all he does when he speaks, is tell stories. Is that true?" Marcie asked, turning her grey eyes to her superior.  
"'Tis." Juliette confirmed. "And, they're always about the same people, too. Though, they are rather interesting. Worth a listen, actually."  
Marcie half-smiled. "What are they about?" She asked, very curious now.  
"Oh, this and that." Juliette began, remembering the first time she'd heard one of the storied. "About two boys, Sam and Dean, mainly. He thinks that he's their father, though he never had any children, let alone the wife he's mentioned."  
Juliette's eyes turned a bit sad.  
"He tells us about how his sons are hunters, how they hunt monsters and black eyed demons, and associate with angels, and with the King of Hell, too. They even have a personal angel friend, Castiel. He's always been something of my favourite characters in his tales." She smiled at this, before going on. "Lately, he's made Dean into something of a demon himself... I wonder if that means anything."  
Juliette watched the man, watched John Winchester, for a quiet moment.  
"You..." Marcie began.  
Juliette turned to face her, a kind look on her face.  
"Nothing." Marcie said quickly, regretting saying anything.  
"No, out with it, now." She said encouragingly. "What is it you wanted to say?"  
Marcie hesitated, but obliged.  
"You love him, don't you?" She asked, and Juliette blinked.  
She let out a breath, mulling it over.  
"Well, I suppose that I do." She admitted, to herself as well as the younger woman. "Of course, that doesn't matter. I don't act on it, and I've never let it affect how I treat him as a patient."  
Marcie nodded respectively.  
"Now, that stays between us." Juliette told her solemnly, giving John one more look before taking her charge over to the nurses station to begin some paperwork.  
And, as John sat there, watching the leaves drift languidly to the grass below, that image faded to be replaced by his familiar world of imagination brought on by severe schizophrenia.

John Winchester spent the rest of his life in that hospital, continuing to share the adventures of his 'sons' in rich detail and with much enthusiasm to any and all who would listen.  
Juliette, as she always had, made time to be there to hear his glorious tales. And, once she had grown too old to continue working and had retired, Juliette still came to see him.  
She came every other day to spend time with him, and had even done what she could to take charge of him and bring him home to live with her, but had been denied.  
And, one day, John had launched into one of his tales and didn't stop.  
Every waking moment, he continued on and on and on about Sam and Dean, about angels and demons and heaven and hell, about so many things.  
For the next eleven years, John Winchester finished the story of his boys and that long road.

And, just as that story had come to a close, as that final chapter ended, so had his life.


End file.
